


A Line Without A Hook

by tamagochie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of Violence, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Themes of Misogyny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29402316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamagochie/pseuds/tamagochie
Summary: Had you known that such a mysterious, brooding man would throw you into a series of unfortunate events, maybe you wouldn’t have saved him from the women crowding him into a corner that night at the first ball of the season.But had you known that you, of all the women who had fawned over him and begged to be spared at least a glance from someone as beautiful as Levi Ackerman, were the only one who had ever felt the warmth of him smile.So maybe, just maybe, all the chaos that had been birthed from your first meeting was worth it. All the blood that had been spilled and the tears that have been shed was all worth it.
Relationships: Levi Ackerman & Petra Ral, Levi Ackerman & Reader, Pieck Finger/Jean Kirstein, Sasha Blouse/Niccolo
Kudos: 12





	1. "Do you dance, Mr. Ackerman?"

**Author's Note:**

> No thoughts, head completely full of Pride&Prejudice!AU with Levi Ackerman.  
> Have I been binge watching this movie nonstop? Yes.  
> Do I sometimes speak in an accent when I'm by myself? Yes.  
> Am I ashamed? Only slightly. 
> 
> [New chapters every Saturday!]

“I have half a mind to ring you both by the neck!” Your poor mother’s voice, shrill and thin as the early morning air, chases after your sister, Sasha, and her partner in crime, Connie, as they run up and down the halls like a pair of fat mice. 

Their footsteps swift but heavy, slapping harshly against the wooden floorboard of the creaky old house. They pay no heed to your mother or her warnings, and she grows troubled with every sharp turn they take around the house. 

Their laughs are careless and boisterous, billowing throughout the house and watering down the sweet chirping of the birds and the soothing sound of the rushing river nearby. 

Connie calls after Sasha to give him back his share of bread, but only to have her quickly chewing it down, “Damn it, Sasha, you’re such a fat ass!” 

“A fat ass that has your bread!” She counters in a muffle, bits of bread spewing from her lips as she makes another sharp turn out the door and towards the fields. 

But not without knocking down a vase before doing so. 

The sound of glass shattering to the floor ripples throughout the house, reaching all the way up to your upstairs bedroom, causing you to flinch in front of your vanity. 

If you steady your breaths and listen closely, you can even hear the sound of your mother’s patience snapping as well.

“There they go again,” Pieck grumbles through a tired yawn as she sits herself upright in your shared bed. 

You watch her from the reflection of the mirror as you resume to brushing your hair, a sharp contrast to the bird’s nest settling on top of her head. 

Pieck’s eyes are dripped with fatigue and annoyance, drooping to meet yours as she slowly comes to accept that her sleep has yet again been snatched away from her hands by her noisy sister. 

“Isn’t it a bit too early to have a death wish?” You chuckle at her, setting your brush down and twisting around in your chair. You fold your arms over the edge of the backrest before leaning against it while you continue to listen to her. “One of these days she’ll turn those two into pig feeders. We haven’t had a peaceful day since we took in Connie.” 

“At least the pigs will have something to eat,” You tease. 

“Though you don’t seem bothered by it at all.” 

“My dear sister,” You sweetly hum, beaming at her with hope in your eyes like a child on Christmas day, “have you forgotten the day and all the wonderful things that await us?” 

She looks at you quizzically, the gears in her head carefully turning as her mind is still clouded with the need of rest. But it eventually comes to her. 

“Ah yes,” Pieck responds dryly, rolling her eyes, “how can I forget when it’s all mother’s been talking about?” 

“Aren’t you a  _ little _ bit excited?” 

“I’m in my mid-twenties,” Pieck painfully reminds, sighing disappointedly. “I’ve lost all hope and excitement for a potential prospect. If anything, I’m much more excited for the day’s end.” 

She fixes her hair, tucking it behind her ears before scooching over to the edge of the bed and swinging her legs back and forth. She finds more interest in the way her toes can barely brush over the floor than your choice of small talk. 

“Oh, don’t be that way!” You shoot up from your chair, strutting towards your sister and plopping onto the space next to her. The bed cries out at the sudden weight and you stiffen for a moment, worrying it might finally give way; you wait a few beats before speaking again. “Maybe this’ll be the year you’ll find your suitor!” 

“Or another year for disappointment--” She moves her hands in the air, as if physically trying to change the subject. “ _ Anyway _ , I think it’s best we head downstairs and help our mother before she actually  _ does  _ decide to kill our sister.” 

She gently rubs your back before springing herself off the bed and onto her feet before walking out the door, leaving you without another breath spared.

It only takes you a moment, but you tail behind her, scurrying out of the room, down the steps and into the dining hall. 

The smell of freshly cooked food is mouthwatering, and even you find it hard not to hastily take a seat at your place at the table instead of comforting your mother. 

She stands at the corner of the room, hands on her hips and carving crescent moons through her thickly layered dress. Her brows pulled down as her eyes stared down at the broken glass as rage sizzles off her skin.

Maybe if it wasn’t a vase that had been gifted to her by your late father, her ears wouldn’t be ringing.

“Good morning, mother,” Pieck softly greets as she skips over the shards of glass and over to your mother to press a quick, featherlight kiss on her cheek. And somehow, it dissipates your mother’s urge to set your sister on fire. 

“Mm, yes,” She sighs, your body visibly easing. “Morning, darling. Hand me the broom would you?” 

Pieck hums in response before retreating to the kitchen while you make your way around the table and behind your mother. You wrap your arms over her shoulders, caging her in your affection before pecking a kiss on her cheek. 

“Good morning mother,” You greet, dipping down to rest your chin on her shoulder. “How are you?” 

She sighs, running her hands over your skin, “Remind me to put a little more effort during my morning prayers. It seems your sister has tried the last of my patience.” 

Your eyes graze over the mess you both tower over, sunlight reflecting off the stained glass. And you pout, remembering that it had been an anniversary gift. 

You make a mental note to scold Sasha today when you get the chance. 

“All isn’t lost,” You say wishfully, your arms falling to your side as you bend down to inspect the broken pieces, “I think these will be great additions to your handmade jewelry.” 

You look up to meet your mother’s eyes, welling up at your suggestion. She smiles at you, “I think that’s a fine idea. I can even sell these--” 

“No, don’t. Keep these for yourself.” 

When Pieck comes back with a broom and a dustpan in her hands, you take it from her and carefully brush the pieces onto the pan and set it aside for later. 

“Peick, dear,” Your mother says as she takes a seat at the table, “call Connie and Sasha, please? Tell them breakfast’s ready.” 

“No need,” She says, grabbing an apple from the bowl that sits at the center of the dining table. She takes a bite while you take your usual place beside her. “Sasha’s like a bloodhound and Connie’s her companion. I’m sure those two will come stomping in again once she smells the food.” 

And as if on cue, Sasha trudges into the dining hall with a wide grin painted across her lips and Connie trailing along beside her.

“I smelled breakfast?” Sasha says breathily, hunger clouding her eyes as if she hadn’t just scarfed down Connie’s loaf of bread. 

“Oh my days!” Your mother exclaims in a gasp as her eyes flint to Sasha, holding her poor heart in her hands. 

You choke on air, trying to suppress your life. Pieck’s jaw slacks open, a snort leaving her lips and you swear you’re sitting next to a pig. 

Sasha’s dress is stained six inches deep by mud and chicken scraps. A thin layer of sweat coats her skin and her hair messier than Pieck’s. She smells of soap and the heat of the sun, a dizzying stench that mixes in with the food. 

“Sasha Blouse, you--” 

“Good morning, Mrs. Blouse!” Connie heaves, purposefully interrupting your mother from scolding Sasha even if it's momentarily. “Thank you for letting me join breakfast again.” 

“Mm? Oh, yes.” Your mother snaps from her fiery rage and her disposition falls soft and kind. “My boy, there’s no need for that. You always have breakfast here in this house, why would today be any different? Hurry and take your seat.  _ Sasha _ , you as well, and try not to track any more mud in.” 

Everyone sits at their rightful place as well as the help that eat their share of food separately in the kitchen. 

It isn’t long until your mother completely abandons her feelings of sadness and anger, and welcomes in the wave of excitement she has for tonight’s ball. It’ll be the first one of the season after a long, depressing winter that had stolen too many lives than the previous year. 

All that anybody wants to do now is dance and find a prospect, especially you. You love your family, but you’d be called an absolute liar if you said you weren’t growing sick of their faces. 

Though Pieck doesn’t seem to mind spending another season inside. 

You listen with intent, mirroring the same excitement as your mother while Sasha scarfs down her food and Pieck picks at her own, seeming to have lost her appetite. 

“Oh, speaking of!” Your mother quirks, wiping the small scraps of food sitting on the corner of her mouth. “The three of you will be needing to go to town and deliver some extra vegetables Connie picked from the garden to your brother. We need every penny we earn, especially now since everyone’s so keen on buying fresh vegetables after such a deathly winter.” 

“Wait, I’m allowed to go, too?” Sasha beams, a few bits of food fall out of her mouth, causing Connie to snicker and your mother (as usual) to scold her. “Does Connie get to go, too?” 

“Now that you’ve said it, I was wondering why my morning hasn’t been ruined by Reiner’s constant need to tell me what to do.” You smirk at Pieck’s playfulness, finally breaking her silence. 

Your mother chooses to dismiss Pieck’s snarky comment with her hands already full with Sasha.

“Now now,” Your mother says, “You girls should also find this as an opportunity to buy some ribbons or new buttons for the ball tonight! Everyone should look their best, especially  _ you _ , Pieck.”

The temperature in the room drops, but it's not like your mother’s noticed. You’re all aware that she means well, but with Pieck having little to no interest in being married and would rather settle being single forever even if it meant bringing more shame to herself, you would’ve thought your mother picked it up by now.

But your mother, as adamant as she always is, continues to twist and bend fate to her own will. Even if it means she’ll become a desperate woman by doing so. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It's exactly just as your mother expected it to be: the market is bustling with people and there isn’t enough space to breathe. You use half your strength moving against the current of the crowd and the other half trying to hold yourself back from screeching at Sasha who’s nothing more than just smudge in your line of sight. 

You genuinely couldn’t understand why your mother would allow some as rowdy as Sasha to come along to town. 

Thankfully, Pieck pushes through the crowd as she walks back to you, taking your hand in hers and pulling you along with her until you reach your family’s stall. 

Reiner’s practically cornered, you catch a twinkle of fear and panic in his hazel eyes as he tries to balance his attention on listening to orders while packing the vegetables into their rightful baskets. 

Though, it’s only noticeable to you. But to anyone else, he’s just his usual stoic self. 

“Reiner! Reiner!” You jump behind the customers, you and Pieck waving your hands in the air to draw his attention. 

“Oh, thank God.” Reiner murmurs in relief, reaching his hand out to you and Pieck to pull you through the line of customers caging around the stall. “Have you come to save me?” 

“Nope,” Pieck quips, taking the basket from you and shoving it into his chest. “We’re here to add to your pain, my dear brother.” She smiles bitterly and he merely ruffles her hair through his fingers. 

“Looks like someone hasn’t showered,” He jokes, bringing his fingers up to his nose before wiping it off his pants. He returned his attention back to the customers, taking orders and handing them their basket of vegetables. 

Pieck notices her brother’s struggle and walks into the booth to help manage the money. 

“At least I smell like flowers after I’ve bathed, but you’ll always smell like pigs feet--” Pieck swats Reiners hand before he ruffles her hair again, “--stop that!” 

Reiner looks at the both of you with honey eyes like he usually does. As if it had been forever since he’d last seen the two of you, but it's just the way he is; a family man with a heart full of love at best if not an overbearing brother.

You stand to the side, leaning against the wall and fanning yourself as you finally catch your breaths. You watch as Pieck and Reiner join forces to combat against the aggressively needy customers shouting their orders and reaching for their baskets. 

You aren’t the only stall that sells fresh fruits and vegetables, but you are the only one that sells the best in town. And the way an endless stream of money flows in, you find hope that there’ll be enough money to make it by the end of the season if not the whole year. 

Reiner pulls away momentarily, wiping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He stalks towards you, pulling a few extra coins from his pocket, taking your wrist and stealthily putting it in your hand. 

You look at him quizzically, tilting your head. “What’s this?” 

“I’m sure whatever mother’s given you won’t be enough for the three of you so take this, too.” Your eyes widen and you shake your head. You part your lips to argue, but he gives you a look that tells you not to try. “Buy me new cufflinks, too, would you? I can’t keep wearing dad’s old ones.” 

Your smile is bittersweet, but you oblige. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The bells hanging above the door sing the moment you enter in. The air is crisp and almost immediately does it alleviate the burning sensation in your lungs had it not been for Mrs. Bloom’s habitual need for a smoke. 

She stands on the other side of the counter, leaning against it with both elbows resting on the surface. Her silver hair wrapped well into a tight bun, decorated with a single flower. Her eyes bluer than the sky, yet no trace of joy at such an hour in the morning. 

In a way, she reminds you of your mother. Not because of the weariness that clearly paints her face, or that she’s just as wrinkly. But the aura around her is just about the same regardless of whatever she may be currently feeling--yellow.

High of energy and optimism. 

You greet her with a genuine smile and she mirrors the action.

“Ah, hello!” She puts her cigarette out onto the tray, waving off the puff smoke before coming round the counter. The click clacking of her heels fill the space since not many women have entered her store. 

At least not yet.

“My, look how you’ve grown,” Your name slips past her old lips, laced in her usual sweetness, enough to make your tooth ache. She runs her hands up and down your arms, beaming at you, “it’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other.”

“Early November,” You say with a fake pout, “before we were all told to retreat into our homes and hide from death.” 

She shivers at the memory of the harsh winter, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’d rather not think of all the lives that’ve been lost. Like the May’s for example; they lost their daughter after she had come into contact with a child who had the sickness.” 

You frown. You did hear about it and not too long ago either. You never met her, the young girl, but you heard she was the very best of her sisters. And the thought of having to lose either one of your sisters, Reiner, Connie, or any of the help, made you sick. 

You’re whisked away as Mrs. Bloom loops her arm around yours, immediately changing into a lighter subject as she pulls you into the ribbon room. You look around in awe, lips gaping open as you fathom the array of colors hanging on the wall. 

Mrs. Bloom gloats about the new arrival of ribbons and how some have been shipped in from Paris. She shows you her favorites, Mid-Summer Green, Deathly Red, and Baby’s Breath Blue. She cuts you free sample pieces, and of course you try and turn it down. 

But you should be well aware by now that Mrs. Bloom has the same determination burning in her veins as your mother. Sometimes you wonder if they could be long lost sisters given how pushy they both can be. 

“Now, what color ribbons are you here for?” She twirls the ribbons around her fingers while she waits for your response. 

Everything’s so pretty and you can’t help but feel overwhelmed. 

You shrug your shoulders, “You know me, I’m a bit indecisive with things like this,” You chuckle, “am I really a woman?” 

She waves you off, dismissing your comment. “‘Course you are! Don’t Leave it to me. Is it just for you?” 

You shake your head. 

“For Sasha and Pieck as well...and for cufflinks for Reiner...” 

You catch the way Mrs. Bloom’s grey brows quirked at the mention of Pieck’s name, and you already know the path this conversation would stroll down on. 

“Really?” Mrs. Bloom asks, twisting herself to completely face you. Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. “I would’ve thought she’d have a prospect by now.” 

“I would think so, too,” You admit, sighing deeply as you cross your arms over your chest, “But none of the men in this town are good enough. Those who’ve tried by sister’s hand in marriage or at least tried to court her were either wrinkly and borish, or wrinkly and perverted…” 

“And those the same age as my sister only sought marriage as an economic proposition, and I just think that’s absolutely no way to live a life.” 

Mrs. Bloom scoffs, “What is marriage to a woman if not an economic proposition?” 

“An opportunity of hope and happiness…” You say as you turn your head to look out the window at the front of the shop, and watch as people aimlessly pass by. 

“Hope and happiness are never found in the same sentence as ‘marriage’.” 

“My parents were happy.” You counter softly, not really trying to start an argument. You lull your head to look at Mrs. Bloom and find that regret colors her old face as she frowns at your words. “My mother was very much happy with my father, and maybe if he was still alive I’d be able to make my point.” 

Mrs. Bloom remains silent, unable to fathom a comforting thought. She knew your father well; he took care of her from time to time, especially when she’d fall ill and he always gave her free vegetables--even more so before the cold season would arrive. 

He was a kind man that was taken too soon and took all the joy in your mother right with him. 

“Well,” Mrs. Bloom says, cutting through the silence before clearing her throat. Her signature smile plasters across her lips. “What about you? What would you wish for in love then, mm?” 

“I wish to be loved genuinely, and I don’t care if his reputation precedes him or not.” Hope twinkles in your eyes and you push yourself off the slumped position. “If he loves me genuinely for my mind and my heart, and not just because I’m pretty, then what more do I need?” 

“ _ Money _ , dear.” She reminds, cutting a few ribbons for you and your sisters before placing it in a small bag. “I’m sure your brother wouldn’t be happy to hear you saying something so foolish.” 

“I’m aware of the struggles marriage entertains, Mrs. Bloom.” You chuckle, smiling at the way she crinkles her nose at your ‘foolish thinking’. 

“But if I’m going to struggle, don’t you think it should be with someone who genuinely loves me? Whoever he may be, if he loves me genuinely and cares for my family genuinely, then what else would I need?”

In true fashion, Sasha bursts into the shop, interrupting Mrs. Bloom before she can remind you of the word ‘money’ and its meaning. Her chest constricts for air and a crazed smile paints across her lips. 

Your eyes fall to her hand and you see her tightly clutching a cooked chicken leg.

“Ah, yes, Sasha,” Mrs. Bloom says, her tone dry with a little annoyance bubbling to the surface. “My least favorite of the sisters.” 

“Hello, Mrs. Bloom,” Sasha greets, choosing to ignore her tone. 

“Sasha! Where have you been?” You stride towards your sister, cupping her cheeks in the palm of your hands as you study her face. You check to see if there’s any sign that she had gotten herself into trouble. “Where’d you get this chicken leg? Did you even pay for it?” 

“That’s why I came here!” She says, barely catching her breaths as her lungs burn for air. “I promised the man you’d pay for me!” 

“I--” You look at her baffled, and though you’d like to be angry with her, you can’t help but laugh. “Mrs. Bloom I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our conversation short.” You say, turning to look at her. 

“No need for worries, everything’s already in the bag,” She hands it over to you with a smile directly only to you, “even your brother’s cufflinks. I chose ones that’ll match his eyes well.” 

You open your purse and hand Mrs. Bloom your money before bowing in thanks. 

Following Sasha, you dart out the door with your head still down, causing you to collide against a dense figure the moment you step outside. Sasha calls your name in worry, quickly stepping to your side. 

You don’t waste time to mutter a string of apologies, head still bowed. But you only hear, “Tsk. Brat.” 

Your pupils dilate, you jerk your head up to meet eyes, dark and seeping with irritation narrowed at you; his jaw clenched and his brow twitching.

In a town small enough to have you remembering everyone’s faces like it's the back of your hand, you can’t seem to place a name on this one. 

The strange man, short yet seeming to hold all the anger in the world, grimaces at you. He doesn’t allow you to breathe another apology and briskly leaves you in a puddle of embarrassment. 

“Are you okay?” Sasha asks, her arm coiled around yours as she looks at you wearily. “Who was that?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


You place a few pins in Sasha’s hair as you finish getting ready for the ball, though it doesn’t go without a fight. You have to jerk her head forward with your hand every now and then to keep you from poking her eyes out, and she whines every time. 

“ _ Sasha _ .” You chide, trying your best not to give into the urge of yanking her hair out. “The more you move, the longer it’ll take for me to finish.” 

“This is stupid,” She huffs, sinking into her chair as she continues to play with the flower in her hand. “Why do I have to look presentable? I’ll be in the kitchen all night anyway.” 

Pieck shuts her book and sets to the side, “Sasha, you leave Niccolo  _ alone _ ! This is a very important night for him, and he doesn’t need you distracting him.” 

“I’m not a bother!” She counters, gripping the arms of the chair as she sits up right. You let out an exasperated sigh, giving up on continuing. 

_ It's fine _ , you think in defeat.  _ Her hair is good enough _ .

“He likes my company! And what business do I have wandering around a ball that’s so dull and boring?” 

“And you think you’ll find your prospects in the kitchen?” Pieck asks, playful with her tone as she quirks a brow. 

You watch from the reflection of the vanity as Sasha’s eyes shyly cast down to the flower withering in her hands, and it hits you like a stampede of cows. 

“ _ Oh _ , my dear sister, I think  _ he is _ .” You muse, smirking over to Pieck and Sasha tenses almost immediately. Her cheeks washed in a deep red as her eyes wide in panic. 

Pieck’s lips fall to an ‘o’. 

“She’s not denying it…” 

“Shut up!” Sasha quips, springing from her chair and turning around to glare at you both. 

“You like him!” You gasp, smiling. “You like Niccolo!”

“Shut up! Don’t you dare say another word!” 

“I’m telling mother.” Pieck says, mischief laced in her words as she darts out the room. Sasha wastes no time to stomp after her with an intent to kill.

* * *

  
  


The push and pull of bows against the strings of the musician’s instruments is a harmonious tune pervading the dance hall, complimenting the faint chatter of guests and the clamoring of others as they dance around the room. The bright crystal lights of the chandelier gleaming over the scene. 

You laugh loudly and carelessly, throwing your head back with your arm looped around a man with a name that doesn’t come to mind. You prance in circles together, dancing along with the people around you. Sweat drips for your brow and strands of your hair blown away as you briskly exchange partners, never missing a beat. 

Giddiness sends a tingling feeling over your skin and you find yourself smiling widely as if you spent the night with a hanger in your mouth. 

When the music finally halts and transitions to something with a little less intense pace, you bow to your partner and give him a thanks for indulging you with a dance. 

Your eyes scan around the room, looking for Pieck and Riener; they’re exactly right where you left them and you can’t help groan a little in annoyance. 

You stand right in front of them, tying your arms over your chest as you catch your breaths. “Why haven’t either of you moved? Where’s mother?” 

“She found favor in Governor Pixy’s presence.” Reiner says, clearing his throat before taking another sip of wine he holds in his hand. “She left a little while ago, but I did see her wandering around over there just a minute ago.” 

You turn your head to the direction Riener’s pointer finger leads, and find your mother giggling like a child with Governor Pixy’s near the food table. You chuckle when you catch your mother flirtatiously fanning herself. 

“Nice to know that mother's found herself a prospect--ow!” You whip your head to find Pieck glaring at you warningly. “What? Would it be so bad if mother found herself a new match--ow! Okay then, probably not.” 

“Don’t joke about such things!” She scolds in a whisper. 

“Well, what about our sister, Sasha?” 

“Kitchen,” Is all Reiner says before taking another sip, and it's all you need to know. 

Sasha’s probably retreated into the kitchen for more than one reason now, after Pieck had exposed her liking towards Niccolo. And it gave her mother more reason to scold her for not being ladylike at all. 

For the most part of the early evening, you stay with Reiner and Pieck, walking around and entertaining conversations with people you hadn’t spoken with since the winter. No one dares to speak of those who died, not wanting to bring the spirits of the party down, and you don’t blame them for it. 

It's a few more minutes of music and chattering when the hall succumbs to complete silence. The sudden shift in the atmosphere makes you whip your head in the direction of everyone else's stares. 

Your lips gape open as if you’re a fish caught in a hook. 

A group of three consisting of a woman who--to your surprise--wears a pantsuit, but it's her eyepatch that catches you off guard; a man, tall and brawn with hair bright as the sun and eyes a dazzling blue, it takes your breath away; and another man-- _ oh _ . 

That man. 

The one you had accidentally bumped into when you chased after Sasha earlier this morning. The one who looked down at you and called you a brat, kicking dust your way as he left. 

He may be smaller compared to his company, but you make no mistake. Small he may be, but the way he carries himself as they slowly waltz down the hall, holding his head up high as if to balance his well polished crown on his head, tells you he is  _ not _ . 

The tension in the room is thick and you find it hard to swallow let alone breathe. You notice yourself staring a little longer, their movements, no matter how minuscule, are magnet to your eyes. 

You hear a couple of girls giggling, whispering amongst themselves and you can’t help but poke your nose into their conversation. 

“Do you know who they are?” You ask in a low whisper. 

One of the girls turns to you, their eyes going round in disbelief. “You must be joking.” 

“What?” 

The girl pulls you close to her, the rest of her friends huddling around you. You get a strong whiff of her perfume, finding it difficult to pay attention to what she has to say. 

“That man right there,” She discreetly points to the blonde with his lips, pink and pump, curved into a smile as he basks in the attention, “his name’s Erwin Smith, as in son of  _ the  _ Smiths who own most of the shops here and all the other ones in the next town over--” 

“And a few in Paris, too!” One of her friends chimes in, practically swooning already. 

“It's rumored that he’s richer than the King,” The girl begins again, “but of course the rumors are baseless and there’s not much evidence to the claims…”

“And the one next to him,” The girl says, clearing her throat as she points to the woman with the eyepatch, “Hange Zoe, trusted advisor and well known doctor in the country. Though, people find them rather weird.”

You tilt your head, furrowing your brows. “Them?” 

“Mm, yes.  _ Them _ .” She echos. “Not she or her, but they and them. People find them weird because of the choice in pronouns. Even I find it weird, but if it reaches their ears, those men beside them won’t hesitate to humiliate you.” 

“Best follow their requests than to be publicly humiliated, don’t you think?” Her friend says, quirking her brow at you. All you can manage is a nod as you try and digest the information. 

“Well, what about the brooding man leading them down?” The girls giggle and you raise your brows. “What? Am I missing something?” 

The girl snorts. “That man right there is their closest, most trusted friend. He’s Levi Ackerman: Humanity’s Strongest.”

“I--I don’t understand-” 

“Another rumor without much evidence,” She pulls you down just a little to have her lips ghosting over your ear, whispering, “it's been said that he’s killed more men in one breath than the lives that’ve been lost during the Battle of Waterloo. And that’s considering  _ both  _ sides...” 

“...Apparently the Smiths don’t have the  _ cleanest  _ hands.” The girl notices your puzzled expression and sighs in disappointment, as if all of this is merely common knowledge. “Erwin Smith, poster boy of perfection, and Levi Ackerman, the one who handles all the dirty work.” 

Another one of the girls, who looks to be the ripe age of sixteen, looks at you in the eyes as she drags her thumb across her neck. 

Oh. 

“But these are all baseless rumors--oh! Here they come.” 

You’re still digesting the information that has been slapped on your face, so you lag when it comes your turn to bow. But as your eyes skirt down, it once again catches the gaze of the brooding man--Mr. Ackerman. He quickly turns his head and continues to walk away, and you can’t help but wonder if you had imagined the glint of an unfamiliar look in his eyes. 

The hall comes back to life once they’ve reached the end of the hall, and you quickly scurry to Riener and Pieck, wanting to confirm everything you’ve just heard.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


You catch yourself looking for Mr. Ackerman for the remainder of the night. 

Your eyes, bleeding with anticipation and excitement, darts from one corner to the other, looking for a familiar head of jet black hair. You try to remain calm and collected, not wanting to seem as desperate as every other woman who quickly flocked around him. 

But you’re at a loss; he’s nowhere in sight. 

You’re just about to give up and retire back to your brother’s side when you hear someone clearing their throat from behind you. 

You spin around, looking up to find a very familiar figure towering over you. 

You swallow thickly as if mud had been lodged into your throat. You open your mouth to speak, but embarrassing enough, nothing but a very small whimper leaves your lips. 

They’re much more intimidating up close. 

“Don’t worry,” They say, smiling down at you with ease. “I don’t bite, I promise. My name’s Hange Zoe, call me Hange if you like.”

They stretch their hand out for you to shake, and reluctantly you do as you introduce yourself. 

With their hands clasped behind their back, they dip down to meet you at eye level, “If you’re looking for Mr. Ackerman, he’s over there drowning in women.” 

They point with their chin and you follow the direction of their eye. You catch an irritable expression plastered deeply across his face; arms folded, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenching tightly. If you squint just enough, you can see the steam rise from his head. 

It's evident he’s displeased by their attention and attempt of affection, yet the women continue to talk his ear off. 

“It seems he may be in a bit of a need of  _ assistance _ , don’t you think?” Hange looks at you expectantly, but you merely blink at them, still too dumbstruck by their sudden presence. “Ms. Blouse, I think Mr. Ackerman needs a bit of saving from those women.” 

“Oh!” You say, their words finally clicking. “Oh, right. Yes, I can do that.” 

They give you a wink before placing their hands on your shoulder, turning on your heels and pushing you to Mr. Ackerman’s direction. 

Your stomach churns, folds and flips. Each step you take feels heavier and heavier as you inch closer to the giggling flock of women. No matter how much you want to run away, a very big part of you would like to use this opportunity to get to know him. 

And why? 

You’re not entirely sure yourself. 

Gripping all the confidence your dear sister Pieck had instilled in you before arriving at the ball, you lift your chin, hold your shoulders back, and carry the best unwavering smile as you clear your throat. 

The women turn their gaze to you, their voice trailing off. Levi jerks his head and watches you closely; he’s surprised, but not that you can tell. 

“Can we help you?” A woman scowls, stepping closer to Levi’s side as if she’s protecting what’s hers. As if she had already claimed him and vice versa. 

You meet Levi’s eyes, swallowing once again. You feel your knees shaking and you’re thankful for such a long dress that it isn’t made obvious to the women glaring down at you like sparrows preparing for an attack. 

_ Confidence _ , you think to yourself.  _ Hold that confidence _ . 

_ Exhale and smile _ . 

“Do you dance, Mr. Ackerman?” You ask.

Levi quirks a brow, dumbfounded by such a question. “Not if I can help it,” He replies dryly. 

The women around him snicker at the rejection, and though you usually wouldn’t set yourself up for more embarrassment, let alone the hands of women who’re caked with too many layers of makeup, you mentally kick yourself one more time before speaking. 

“Well, will you help it now?” You hope the shine of the chandelier falls to your favor and help the twinkle in your eyes. You hope it's enough to charm him or at least have him pick up what you’re trying to do.

You catch the subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. He shoves his drink into the hands of the woman next to him and emerges from the barrier they made. 

Levi looks at you, studying your expression and you never felt so exposed beneath anyone’s gaze, but you keep your eyes trained on his. 

You look at him patiently, still smiling. “What?” 

“This is the part where you reach your hand for me to take.” You say in a hushed voice, smiling sincerely. 

“Oh.” His voice is gruff, barely above a whisper but enough for you to hear. 

You begin to wonder if he has any idea what he’s doing. Even with his stolid expression, you can read him clearly--easier than a book--that he hasn’t gotten a clue how to dance. 

You take out your hand for him to take. “You can trust me,” You encourage. “Just follow me and I promise not to make yourself look like a fool.” 

He reaches his hand out, hovering over yours with caution. If it hadn’t been for the music, maybe you could’ve heard his heart thrashing against his chest or how he painfully bites his tongue as his panic threatens to spill. 

His hands feel callous against yours, but nevertheless it feels warm and you feel the strain in your muscles to soften. 

The music transitions to something a little less upbeat compared to earlier. A soft emotion permeates the air, and you can hear a ringing in your ears as you make your way to the dance floor. 

You can hear the whispers over the music; some are astonished while others throw snarky comments on your ‘cheap attempt’. You glance over to Levi to check if he’s heard, but the expression in his face is glazed. He either hears it or chooses not to pay heed to it. 

Either way, you’re grateful he hasn’t walked away. At yeast not yet. 

You stand in front of each other, just a few inches apart before bowing. You mouth, ‘ _ It's okay’,  _ before the music begins. 

The dancing starts off in gentle, calculated steps; and your eyes never leave each other. You still try to hold your smile in an attempt to comfort Levi, but it becomes a challenge since Levi doesn’t bother to soften his expression. 

And if even he is, clearly, you’ve been fooled. 

He’s quiet the whole way through; he doesn’t bother to try for small talk in between. And even if you finally find the courage to do so, your lips seals itself shut. 

“I didn’t need your help,” Levi finally speaks, his distasteful tone cutting through the music. 

You sniff, rolling your eyes.“I’m sorry, would you have wanted to continue having your personal space violated?” 

“If I wanted them to leave me alone, I would’ve done something myself.” He retorts. Is he so prideful that can’t even say a single ‘thank you’?

“Oh, and I’m to believe you enjoyed their company?” You quip. 

“Much better than dancing.” He mumbles childishly. 

“Go on then,” You tease, “go back to those women. I’m sure they’ll welcome you with eager arms, and  _ I _ can finally dance with someone who doesn’t look so...constipated.” 

Levi catches a glimpse of the crowd of women gawking at him as he swiftly moves around the gentleman beside him before returning to you. Levi shudders at the sight. 

“Thought so.” 

“Shut up.” 

You and Levi go for two more rounds in hopes that the women would give up, and they do, opting to stare daggers into you. 

Just you. 

But you’re too wrapped up maintaining eye contact with Levi, your eyes never fraying away from each other. You find yourself growing more and more conscious of the way your hands meet and pull away, intertwining with each other when he spins you around. 

You find yourself feeling a momentary loneliness when you pull away, switching partners, and then joy catching you in it’s arms when you find yourself in his presence once again.

Sadly, the dance ends as quickly as it begins as you both bow.

The tightness in your chest and the tickling in your belly subsides, but you feel like you’re floating and you don’t think you’d ever want this feeling to go. 

You wonder if this is why birds love to fly so much; they feel like they’re capable of anything. 

By the time you’re pulled back to the glossy marble floor, Levi has already disappeared into the crowd. You don’t even notice Reiner by your side or that fact he’s been calling your name. 

“Mm?” You say absentmindedly, flicker your eyes to your brother who looks down at you in shock. “What, what? What is it?” 

“You’re remarkable.” He marvels, “Out of all the men you can dance with, you choose the one with a murderous track record.” 

You pout at him. “They’re all just baseless rumors,” You say, not sure why you’re trying to defend a man with such a ugly attitude. 

You spend the rest of your night with your thoughts full of him, wondering why some as dry and cruel caught your interest. 

You were either completely mad or incredibly bored. Either way, you can’t help but want more.


	2. I Have a Proposition to Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, you’re the talk of the town after your little stunt at the ball, warranting unwanted attention. And the one you wanted to be noticed by had yet to make an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while! i wonder how many of you will be reading this, and to those who stayed, thank you for being patient enough till I felt better to write again. I’m also sorry because this chapter is LONG, but I did promise it’s worth it, so trust me! Anyway, I hope you’re all doing better than i am! see you next week!

Night spills through the window and into your bedroom as silence blankets over you saved for Sasha's soft snores coming from the other room, and the faint chirping of crickets scattered about the farm.

Despite the soothing atmosphere, you and your thoughts are anything but calm. Your heart thrums in your chest as you reminisce on the events that took place earlier this evening. You raise your hand to the ceiling, turning your palm to face you as you remember the hand that held yours and how it trembled as you danced and continued to do so till the very end.

Watching him dance was like watching a cat that had been thrown into water: completely petrified and utterly aware of its surroundings.

You smile to yourself and chuckle lightly the more you think about Mr. Ackerman. For someone as oddly serious and stoic as him, he was so easy to ready as if looking through a well a polished glass, and you can't help but want to look a little closer and search for scratches and scuffs.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" Pieck groggily whispers, cutting through your thoughts.

You lazily turn your head, your body following, to find her cheek buried into the pillow as a wobbly smile paints across her sleepy face. You lean closer to get a good look of her to check if she's awake.

"I can hear your thoughts," She muses, her eyes fluttering open. "I might even be able to hear your heart if it hadn't been for Sasha's snoring."

"Are my thoughts louder than my heart?" You ask in a soft giggle.

Pieck can only spare a hum as the tide of her sleep begins to roll in and pull her away, but she tries her best to resist, blinking away the temptation.

"Thoughts full of Mr. Ackerman?" She teases in a sleepy yawn. "Only you, my twisted sister, would ask a rumored murderer to dance with you."

"Baseless accusations!" You defend for the second time tonight.

"Baseless or not, it was quite a bold statement."

"What, the dancing?"

Pieck hums again.

"How?"

"Mr. Ackerman may be _widely_ known as Mr. Smith right hand man—some opting to call him his personal dog, but make no mistake, Mr. Ackerman is nothing short of money." Pieck clears her throat before reiterating, "He is a man of _money_ and _we_ are women of _nothing_. You reached for the stars tonight when society has dictated that our place will always be on the ground, in the dirt."

You never thought of it that way, to you, it was a measly dance—a plan of action to save a drowning man in a sea of women who were no more interesting than their family name. You pitied them a fool for trying too hard, and now you can't help but lump yourself along with them.

Because even if you hadn't meant to, you made yourself look just as pathetic as the rest of those women fawning over him.

Pieck notices you've fallen deep into thought and quickly interjects, "Don't think too much about it," She eases with her signature warm smile, "and keep reaching for the stars. You'll never know, maybe you'll get out of here before me."

You frown.

You bring your hand up to rest atop of Pieck's cheek, "How heartless of me if I were to leave you behind."

Pieck snugs against your gentle touch, smiling at you as she closes her eyes. She sinks into the comfort of your words and you watch as she falls asleep.

* * *

"Wake up!" Sasha dives onto you, straddling your waist as she lightly slaps the sides of your face, rudely pulling you from your slumber.

Scowling, you snap your eyes open to find Sasha peering down at you with a gummy smile.

"What do I owe the pleasure of this sudden visit, mm?" Your throat as dry as bread as you throw a sarcastic remark. "This better be good, Sasha."

"It is!" She quips, gripping your shoulders harshly. "Quickly now, come downstairs."

"Is it breakfast already?" Pieck groans, voice as raspy as yours.

With her free hand, Pieck reaches up to Sasha's face, brushing away her frizzy bangs fanning over her eyes her, smiling groggily at her giddy sister.

"No, but something far better!" Sasha beams, still hovering over you. "Please, we must come downstairs!"

You and Pieck share the same look of confusion, blinking at her as you thaw out of your sleepy state and coming to your senses.

Sasha rolls her eyes and groans, pulling back to sit on your lap.

"He's home."

Just the two words alone, though may hold little meaning to anyone else, means all the world to the three of you.

You and Pieck suddenly jolt upright, the sleepiness washing away completely and causing Sasha to tip off the bed and onto the ground feet first. Your lips quirk into a wide smile as you hurriedly peel the bed sheets to the side, springing off the bed and darting out of the room.

The three of you are practically fighting over who gets to the bottom of the stairs first, yanking each other by the night gown, hair, or shoulder; it would have your mother lecturing you if she saw.

The sight of a familiar head of ash-brown hair, bright smile, and chocolate eyes standing at the center of the living room has your heart's lodged in your throat, and the three of you come to a stumbling hault.

It's Jean.

He looks weak; his broad shoulders hunched forward, his knees a little bent to make him look like he's crouching; its as if his own body weight is a burden to him, he doesn't even fill his suit like he used to. It worries you, but your excitement to see him glosses over it and almost immediately do you forget it.

Your chests constrict and your breaths are labored, but your smiles bloom with joy as Jean opens his arms out to the three of you, greeting you with the same avidity.

"Well, don't you lot look absolutely awful!" Jean teases, his signature smirk painting across his stubbly face. "Are you gonna stand there, or d'you not miss me?"

The three of you don't miss a beat; Pieck bullets through you and Sasha, darting into Jean's arms and clinging around his neck. Sasha dives onto the floor, skidding her knees against the carpet as she lands onto Jean's feet to wind her arms around his leg, happily huming to herself as she rubs her cheek against the scratchy material of his pants.

The poor man nearly looses his balance and quickly grips the head of the chair for support.

You, on the other hand, settle for a less aggressive approach, tip-toeing across Sasha to snake your arms around the open space on Jean's side. You rest your head against and smile, you well up.

Jean peppers kisses atop your head as well as Pieck's, each one more affectionate and desperate than the last.

It had been quite a while since you and the family had last seen Jean or even heard from Jean. He had left back in October for what was supposed to be a short tip to Paris to tutor a few boys in their English Studies, but it had been prolonged when the plague stretched past the borders to France.

You rarely heard from him as is, but the longer he stayed, the less you heard from him and by the time Christmas rolled around, you stopped recieving letters altogether. You had worried he had caught the plague and died, and there as no way of confirming suspicions either, forcing you pray out of desperation and comfort.

"Welcome back," You sigh in relief, pulling away just slightly to get a good look at him. Jean's face looks tired, and his face alarmily thin. "Has your time in Paris not been kind to you?"

"It was kind enough." Jean assures, not letting you say another word as he pulls in again, cradling your head in the palm of his hand as he sighs in your hair. He's just eternally grateful to be home.

Sasha reels back and jumps to her feet to look at Jean in the eyes. "Where's my gift, hmm?"

"Sasha!" You and Pieck scowl in unison.

"What? He promised a gift!"

Jean looks at her sorrowfully, "I'm sorry," He says, "I wasn't able to get you anything this time around."

Sasha chooses to hold back on her whines, not just because of the daggers you pierce into her, but the weary look on her dear friend's face is enough to zip her mouth shut. He looks sickly, and even if she were to ask, he'd shy away from answering.

"It's okay," She eases, letting it go. "I think you being here, all safe and sound, is better than any gift."

"I think so, too." Pieck hums to herself, but Jean hears her clearly and presses another kiss on the crown of her head.

Jean opens his arm to Sasha, making enough space for her to squeeze in the middle and she wastes no time to dive into the group hug.

"You owe me for next time, Kirstein." She teases, a smirk playing across her lips.

A little while after, after the little crying and affectionate hugging, Jean paints the picture of his time away and apparently very little transpired. He had only been given a couple weeks of freedom before people fell into the hands of the plague and were forced into their homes. Though, it did take a while for the whole town to be convinced of its seriousness.

With a dreich expression, Jean admits he found himself homesick not long after his arrival, and it only snowballed when he wasn't allowed out. Even though his employer—much to his surprise—was kind and shown him nothing but warmth during his stay, he admits it was a pale comparison to the love of the Blouse family.

This only sparks more tears between the four of you. But the intimate chat is cut short by your mother's interjection as she calls for breakfast.

You all gather around the table, stomachs readying themselves to devour the freshly cooked food splayed across the table.

As you take your places at the table, you mother doesn't miss a beat to bombard Jean with question. She doesn't even let him reach for a roll of bread without asking the golden question, "Had you found a prospect yet?"

Pieck chokes on her water and you spit your food, Sasha raises her brows but continues on scarfing down her food as if nothing's been said. Connie, on the other hand, eyes Jean beside him.

Jean raises his brows for a moment as he takes the bread from the plate, splitting it in half to share with Connie like he usually does before answering, "No, I haven't, Mrs. Blouse." He pauses, stealing a swift glance at Pieck who sits across from him, quietly chewing her food, "I'm afraid French women aren't my taste."

"Bit of a shame," Your mother sighs absentmindedly as she cuts into her hard boiled egg, "Someone as handsome and intelligent as you, I had hoped you found yourself a pleasant woman. There are many beautiful women in Paris, all who are looking for a desirable husband"

Jean chuckles nervously, evidently uncomfortable by your mother's words. He's more concerned with how Pieck be reacting to it, not that she shows any discomfort or allows herself too. She's preoccupied swatting Sasha's hand away from her plate.

"I apologize for coming home empty handed, Mrs. Blouse," Jean jokes before taking a sip of water and once again stealing a glance at your sister.

You cock a brow at Jean as you watch him from the corner of your eye. He's so desperately obvious, you wonder how your sister manages to be so thickheaded and not notice.

"Not to worry!" Your mother says, "The season's just begun, so there'll be many more opportunities to find a suitor."

"Is marriage all you concern yourself with, Mother?" You cut in, saving Jean from choking on the growing lump in his throat.

You watch your mother through your lashes as she sit across from you, giving you a quizzical look, as if you had even ask. At a surface level, your mother may look clueless; however, he is anything but.

"My darling," Your mother begins as she wipes away the crumbs from the corners of her mouth with her napkin, "I hope you never find yourself with three daughters and a son, living in a farm under a name of a husband who is no longer alive. I hope you never have to feel bad about under paying your help and going to sleep with an ache in your chest. I hope you never have to worry marrying your daughters off like cattle because you know well enough, that as a woman, you cannot support them..."

"So, no, marriage is not 'all I concern myself with' even if it looks to be that way. I am, however, concerned about how I'm going to continue on the livelihood of your father's work without having more of his family trying to snatch it from his hands."

The temperature in the room falls and the air grows thick. You bite your cheek, regretting your cheeky move. It was a touchy subject to begin with, you just didn't think it'd be deeper than that.

From the corner of your eye to your left, you look at seat at the head of the table—the place where your father used to sit. A place that should've collected dust, but never does because your mother dutifully wipes it down every morning for the last seven years as if your father's just around the corner.

"I'm sure my sister won't have such worries," Pieck chimes in, interrupt the growing tension. Your eyes go around and you snap your head to her, throwing her a warning look.

Your mother cocks her head, "How d'you mean?"

"She means Mr. Ackerman," Sasha answers absentmindedly, "She danced with him last night."

"D'you really?" Your mother's snarky attitude dissipates and is immediately replaced with glee, and it shocks you; out of anyone in the family, you would've thought she'd have your head for dancing with a murderer—rumored murderer. "What a fine match!"

You choke."Excuse me? Are you serious?"

"Have I ever joked in my life?"

Point taken, but not actually the point you were making.

"Mother, how are you okay with this?"

"Why do you care?" Sasha questions mid-chew,"You seemed to be more than delighted while you danced with him last night.

"How'd you know? You were in the kitchen all night."

Like a dial, your mother's attention fleas from you and right onto Sasha.

"Sasha, how could—Sasha, wipe your mouth, you are not a cat!" Your mother chastises.

"Regrettably, I am not." Sasha sarcastically slips before wiping the food off her lips with the back of her hand. Connie watches in delight as he best friend pays no mind to her mother's heed. "Tragically, I am woman."

"Sasha." Your mother scolds, "You spent the night in the kitchen again?"

"Not the whole night!" Sasha clarifies, her knife and fork clanging together as she drops it against the surface of the table, readying herself for an argument. "I was only there for a little while, I swear!"

"Tell me," You mock as your rest your elbows onto the table, folding your hands before resting your chin atop of it. You look directly into her eyes, "Does 'a little while' mean the whole night?"

"Why you—"

Before Sasha can even climb over the table, there's a sudden knock at the door and the momentum is broken. Everyone at the table turns their heads, and Connie quickly springs from his seat and sprints to the door like clockwork.

After a couple of breaths, he return with eyes round and jaw slacked. His lips open and close, a syllable barely makes it out alive.

"Connie?" Your mother softly calls, looking at him with concern. "My boy, what's wrong? Who's at the door?"

His lips slowly twitch into a smile as he scratches the back of his head. The look of disbelief plasters across his face.

"There seems to be visitors for your daughter."

Your mother rises from her chair, looking blissfully elated. "Oh my days, suitors?"

Connie nods.

"F-For Peick?" Jean stutters, gripping the butter knife too tight for comfort.

Connie shakes his head.

"Then for whom?" Your mother presses.

Maybe there's still a little sleepiness lingering in you, or maybe it was the heat of the conversation you just had that nearly lead to your sister to climb across the table and throw her hands at you, because there's absolutely no way that it's your name spilling from Connie's lips.

You swear you heard wrong, that there could absolutely be no way there were visitors—'s', meaning plural—here for you. But when you notice everyone's attention snapping to you, the same look of disbelief etched in their face just like yours, you realize you did not hear wrong.

The sound of chairs scraping against the floors pull you out of your shocked trance as your family moves in a frenzy. It takes a moment for you to catch up, and you eventually stand and follow behind them scampering it the front door.

You gasp, covering your mouth when you reach the window as you push through your sisters. There's a line of men trudging through the mud, dodging the chickens that threaten to poke their eyes out as they head to your front door.

"D'you think we'll have enough food for 'em?" Sasha rests her hands on your shoulder, leaning into your back as she stands on her toes to get a better look.

"I don't think they're here for the food," Pieck inspects the men scattered across the patchy lawn, watching them run their hands down their dress shirts and through their hair. She places judgement on them immediately.

Dear God, these men won't do, Pieck thinks as she exhales deeply and folds her arms over her chest.

"Why on God's green earth are they here for me?" You furrow your brows in deep thought, still unable to grasp the situation at hand.

"Its because of your bold statement," Pieck reminds, glancing at you from the corner of her eye with a witty smirk across her lips.

You snort.

"Are you going to pester me with this again?"

"You know I'm right."

"She really is," Sasha chimes, still gawking at the men as if wild geese were scattered across your lawn. Though, its not much of a difference, really. "She's never been wrong."

Jean stands behind the three of you, his dress shirt loosely hanging off him with his hands clasped behind his back as he catches a good look at the flock of men waiting outside. He weeds out the odd looking ones, mentally placing bets to himself on the ones that might pique your interest and the ones that'll have a boot to their bottom before they could ever breathe a word before engaging in the conversation.

"Has this anything to do with a 'Mr. Ackerman'?" He looks down at you with curiosity twinkling in his eyes as you snap your head to face him.

You look at him in disbelief. "Oh, Jean," You whine, "not you, too."

"What? 'Course I dunno the man, I've only heard it on the way here."

"You heard it?" You parrot. "How d'you mean you 'heard it'?"

Jean nods smugly, "Yes, it seems you're the talk of the town. And I must say, your sister has a point. From what I gathered from the little gossip I overheard, anyone would know extending your hand out to a man of such social status is a very bold statement."

"But that doesn't explain the men in the garden—hey!" You bang your fist into the glass, glaring at the man with orange, sheep's wool for hair, causing him to flinch in fear when he meets your eyes. "Watch where you're stepping, those are my father's flowers!"

You take a breath to calm your nerves and turning back to face Jean before speaking again. "That doesn't explain why they're here for me."

Jean's lips fall into a thin smile, his cheeks blushing in embarrassment.

"Nothing attracts a man more than a woman who's taken—it's like a moth to a flame."

Your groan is guttural and laced in disgust. "Pigs!" You shout, not meaning to direct it at Jean. "Men are so—Ugh! I hate them. Absolute pigs!"

"Don't be mean to the pigs." Sasha jokes, "You wouldn't want old Mr. Corky hearing you."

Sasha means the family pet pig that was meant to be killed one and a half winters ago. He was named after a rather snobbish neighbor who only knew and understood the word, 'no'. But when the time came, no one had the heart to kill it. It acted more like a guard dog than it did as a source for food.

You laugh heartily at her joke, wiping away a stray tear before Connie waltzes back into the living room, panic visible rising from his chest and into his throat. He's boots are muddy and wet from tiptoeing around outside to get a better look of the men.

"There's a lot of 'em...What do we do?"

"We let them in." Your mother, who you hadn't noticed had been leaning into the other window with a sparkle of excitement in her eye, adjusts the scarf draped over she shoulders and fluffs her hair as she walks to the door.

"No!" You squeak, sprinting to the door and slamming yourself against is, acting as a blockade between your mother and the door.

Your family falls silent, their eyes widening at the exchange.

All the while, your mother glares at your warningly, her old lips falling into a thin, impatient line. "Darling, step aside." Your mother's voice is soft yet stern. But when she notices you failing to budge, she adds a sharp edge to her words, "Move it. Now."

"I have no interest in looking for a husband!" You argue, out of breath. "At least not now!"

You train your eyes on her and it doesn't waver for a moment. Splaying your arms across the door, you look at your sisters and Jean beggingly, hoping someone would intervene. But this is your mother, and without Reiner, you have no hope.

"Haven't I got any say to who I am to marry?" Your voice cracks at the end of the sentence as worry seeps through your skin in the form of wide eyes colored in fear and a trembling lip.

The idea of being married off so soon terrifies you to no end.

"You've got a whole lot of men outside, enough for you to choose!" Your mother reasons.

"Mother, none of them don't even look like a good match for you her." Pieck steps in to your defense rushing to your side to face her eye to eye. "All of them look questionable..."

"Anyone to you is questionable, dear." Your mother clips, throwing on arm of the scarf over her shoulder as she adjusts her posture so she's standing straight. "Step aside now."

"Didn't you like Mr. Ackerman?" You grow desperate, grabbing at straw to save yourself. Desperate enough to throw a man you had only know for not even half a night into the mess.

"Well, if Mr. Ackerman is to show up, I'll gladly let him have his chance with you."

Your mother clears her throat before yanking you and Pieck away from the door. A smile wider than the horizon pulls the corner of her lips as she takes one more breath before opening the door.

"Gentlemen," She warmly greets,"scrape the mud off your shoes before you enter. My daughter has been expecting you."

* * *

Surely, hell did not take form of men with bleak personalities who carried no more depth and interest than their family names. Surely, hell is more intricately torturous than this.

But it isn't.

Hell is exactly like this, and its designed to stay this way till your lips fall numb and your tongue heavy from all the mindless chit chat you've been entertaining.

You began in the morning, and somehow it's already the afternoon. You don't even remember when you changed out of your nightie and fixed your hair. All of a sudden, without much of a breath, you're somehow talking to man not much older than mid-twenties, chatting you up in the most ridiculous way.

But then again, hell has no concept in time; you're stuck in an endless loop of pointless conversation and forced laughter, drifting from one man to the next.

What's worse is you're surprised at how shallow they all are; money, power, greed, and a dash of sexism for a little more flavor. Red flags may come in different shapes, sizes, and color, but nonetheless they are still red flags.

They never ask about you—never. Its as if they had completely forgotten why they were here in the first place: to get to know you, the woman who danced with Mr. Ackerman.

All the while, as this gentleman with a funny nose and yellowed teeth tells you about his parents' fortune—none of which belong to him—your thoughts float away to Mr. Ackerman. Your eyes subtly scan the room to find that familiar head of hair, and when you don't find him, you quickly shift your gaze out the window, leaning back a bit to get a better look, but he's not there.

You frown, and you wonder if he'll show up.

If he'll _ever_ show up.

Your disappointment doesn't go unnoticed, and for the first time since this morning, the man before you ceases his tangent and asks you if you're okay. You look up, finally meeting his eyes because you were too distracted by everything else wrong with him. You feel a little shocked but off a small smile, "Ah, yes, I'm alright."

But the sweet moment is cut short and the man takes it as his cue to continue on.

 _Really_ , you think, _What did I expect?_

You think you've finally found rest when the day ends and all the men have gone home, but when morning comes, you're greeted by a new line of peculiar looking men who come with flowers and baskets of food. Your heart sinks to deep into your chest when you notice Mr. Ackerman isn't in those sea of faces.

Though, Sasha and your mother happily accept the gifts.

Your mother readies you, changing your clothes and fixing your hair, letting it fall on your shoulders and down your back—rinse, wash, and repeat. And once again, you're forcing a smile and trying your best to stay awake. You do your best, trying to find at least something to pick up in the conversation, but they're all the same.

And you come to depressing realization why your sister thought of herself as a show pony and not an actual woman.

But heaven's light casts down upon you and gives you an opening to flee from the sweaty grips of these men.

"Pieck!" Your mother calls, her tone shrill and happy. Her hips sway as she walks into the living room and towards your sister who sits on the couch looking like an image of beauty, yet a bored expression paints her face. "I need you to run to town to buy some ribbons—"

"I can do it!" You squeak, your voice breaking as you interrupt the man speaking in front of you. You offer him an apologetic smile before looking back at your mother who paints an expression of disbelief.

"My posey," Your mother sighs, the old nickname makes you cringe. She only uses it when she's upset with you. "You've got all these fine gentlemen who've been asking for your presence. Surely, you cannot—"

"But I must!" You interject. You step forward and happily leave the man behind. "I'm the only daughter Mrs. Bloom likes and not to mention, she gives me discounts whenever I visit her."

" _Posey_ , the men." Your mother warns, her eyes digging deep into your own, telling you not to push it.

But you're desperate, and you feel if you stay in this house any longer, you'd commit mass murder.

"I'm sure Pieck wouldn't mind!" Your suggestion earns you a death glare from Jean who's been standing behind the couch, towering over the headrest with his hands digging into the head rest.

Pieck's eyes color in shock, lips parted and ready to object, but you look at her, begging, as desperation seeps through your skin, mentally telling her you'll owe her for the rest of your life if she saves you this one time.

Pieck stands from the couch, a dreaded sigh leaving her lips as the attention in the room finally falls onto her shoulders. "I wouldn't mind entertaining a few suitors," She says, trying to convince herself, but the words fall heavy on her tongue, ruining her taste buds. "I mean, I am in need of suitors...after all."

Jean and your mother hold the same expression: both confused and a little winded by what's transpired. However, unlike Jean, your mother happily accepts the opportunity to introduce Pieck to men.

Jean's eyes narrow at you, annoyance etched in his face as lips fall open to speak as if to scold you, but you catch him just in time.

"Jean, why don't you accompany me to town!" You skip to his side, smiling nervously. "You can tell me more about your trip then!"

Jean grits his teeth as he forces a grin, irritation dripping from his words when he speaks, "I don't see why not."

* * *

"Won't you help me down?" Your whine falls on deaf ears as Jean begins to walk away after slipping off the horse with such practiced ease and pettily leaving you behind to struggle. "How many times do I have to say it? I'm sorry, I really am!"

Jean stills, but doesn't bother to turn around to look at you.

“You don’t know what it’s like!” You pipe, your voice trembling. “You don’t know what it's like to have your entire existence be minimized into something so degrading, to have men look at you like some sort of prize!”

Jean’s shoulders fall and his arms go limp on his side, finally succumbing to your pleas when he hears your voice crack. He turns on his heels, meeting your watery eyes and pouty lips. His once irritated expression dissipates and is replaced with all the pity in the world.

“I’m sorry that I used Pieck,” You whimper, guilt washing over you as you peel your eyes off of Jean and onto the dirt, “but at the same time, I’m not sorry, because if I had stayed in the house for one more minute, I--.”

You don’t notice how close Jean is until he places his hand over yours. Your head pops up to look at him to find sorrow filling his gaze as looks up at you. His lips purses into a thin line as if he’s holding back the urge to say the things in his mind.

Instead he says, “I’m sorry for getting angry.”

“I’m sorry for using your lover as my scapegoat.”

Jeans scoff softly as if brushing your words off his shoulders. A small smile pulls across his lips as he rolls his eyes not out of irritation, but rather playful banter. His arms extend out for you to leap into, and you swing your leg over the horse before jumping into his arms.

He grunts as he catches you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your hands fall on his shoulder and you immediately notice how boney it feels beneath your touch, your eyes widen in concern. But Jean doesn’t take notice, too absorbed at the fact you labelled Pieck his lover.

Not that he shows it.

“She’s not my lover.” He mutters, looking at you with a hollow gaze as if he’s trying to detach himself from the conversation.

You huff in frustration.

“And she never will be unless you tell her.” You move away from Jean’s grasp, but not before gently patting the sides of his arms in encouragement. “What are you so scared of, mm?”

“I don’t deserve her.” He states with full confidence, and you find it a little ironic. Jean, a man with insecurity tucked in his back pocket, keeping it close, but the only time he’s confident is when he labels himself undeserving. “I cannot make her happy.”

“How are you so sure?” You tilt your head, quirking a brow at him as he strolls by your side.

You’re always so curious how someone so handsome and wonderfully intelligent like Jean can be so insecure, especially when it came to love.

You take his hand and rest it over your shoulder before leading him through the busy crowd.

“Is this about money?” You press on, talking over your shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter what it's about.” He clips.

“So, it is.” You rest your hand over his, tapping it lightly as you look up at him with a smile, “All my sister cares for is to love and be loved in return, and if you give her just that, it’ll be more than enough for her.”

Jean stays quiet as your words settle heavily in his mind as you take hold of his hand and move it to your other shoulder, pulling him closer.

“Honestly, Jean,” You breath, weaving through the crowd, “we’re all waiting for you to make your move.”

“All?” He echos.

“Anyone can see how madly in love you are with my sister--even the blind.”

Jean’s eyes widen in embarrassment and his cheeks tint a deep red. He sheepishly shrinks like a turtle hiding in its shell.

It doesn’t take much but a few steps and dodging frantic shoppers to get you to Mrs. Bloom’s. And when you enter her shop, you’re greeted by her usual cloud of smoke and little to no customers, you realize you hadn’t asked our mother the kind of ribbons she wanted.

Mrs. Bloom, all delicate and soft, shuffles around the counter with a twinkling smile across her face, you would think it were the stars that were imitating her. She spreads her arms out to Jean who gladly bends down to accept her warm greeting.

Apart from you, she fancies Jean, but it’s only because he reminds her of her son. You’ve never met him, nor does she really speak of him, but the one time she did, it was when she had first met Jean.

And it was the only thing she spoke of that day, comparing all the ways Jean reminded her of him.

“Oh my days!” She exclaims, pulling back in surprise, her old fingers travel down his back and move up his shoulders. “What has Paris done to you? You feel more fragile than I do! You didn’t catch that plague, did you?”

Jean sheepishly smiles and shakes his head, “I caught a bit of a stomach flu, that’s all. The French have peculiar tastes, and it didn’t settle well with me.”

“Then, let’s fill that stomach, shall we?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s--”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bloom interjects, looping her arm around Jean to pull him close to her side. He hunches over as he’s dragged towards the counter, leaving you to watch in amusement. “I’ve been gifted with a basket by the old Cork family recently. It’s too much for my little body to handle, and I would very much appreciate it if you eat some.”

Slipping away from Jean, Mrs. Bloom hastily walks back around the counter and pulls a small basket of muffins from underneath. She motions Jean to take one and hesitantly he does, choosing the one with blueberries.

A pleased sigh escapes him, a few crumbs here and there stick to his face.

Accomplished, Mrs. Bloom smiles and twists her attention to you.

“You,” Mrs. Bloom’s clipped tone causes you to jolt. “I think you owe me some sort of explanation, dancing with the unattainable bachelor, Mr. Ackerman.” You sigh, smiling softly while lulling your head to the side. “And I’ve heard from a fair amount of jealous women, not only have you danced with Mr. Ackerman, but you’ve gained more prospects your hands can manage.”

Your smile quickly drops and Jean jokes on his muffin, stifling a laugh. He slaps his hand over his mouth as you throw him a dirty look.

“What?” Mrs. Bloom presses, “Is it bad?”

You take a sharp breath, a shiver running down your spine as you remember the events of yesterday and today. “Please, I’d much rather not talk about it…”

“And what of Mr. Ackerman?”

Amusement color’s Mrs. Blooms eyes as she raises her brow. She leans her elbows onto the warbled countertop, holding her chin in her hand as she looks at your expectantly.

You tell Mrs. Bloom about what had transpired that night and Jean listens intently while he continues to chew on his blueberry muffin. Mrs. Bloom’s lips, small and painted in a deep red, fall to a thin disappointed line.

She comments flatly and calls it anti-climatic, pushing for more.

“Is that all?”

You shrug your shoulders sloppily, not really into the conversation. “I guess so. I mean, I haven’t seen him since that night, and I’m not going to put myself under the presumption that I’ll ever see him again.”

The world is mysteriously clever as it is humorous, but you never think that it’d be on your side, because the door suddenly jingles to single someone’s entry. You just didn’t expect it to be the subject of the conversation, Mr. Ackerman himself.

He shuts the door before slumping against it.

Mr. Ackerman is adorned with dark tones of clothing, complimenting his murky aura and mysterious personality.

His dark hair disheveled, his vest unbuttoned and jacket hanging off his shoulder as if it had been grabbed at. Mr. Ackerman’s eyes momentarily flutter shut as he regains his strength, taking a few uneven breaths before snapping his eyes open.

He’s quick to spot you, and if he’s just as surprised as you are to see him, he surely doesn’t show it.

“May I help you, Mr. Ackerman?” Mrs. Bloom pushes herself off the counter as she clears her throat.

“So, _that’s_ Mr. Ackerman,” Jean quietly gasps, speaking more to himself as he watches the scene unfold.

Mr. Ackerman doesn’t speak, but instead raises a finger to his lips, signaling the three of you to stay quiet--to stay still. You watch him with confusion etched in your face as he presses himself close against the door as if he were trying to hide.

And as if on cue, like a flock of pigeons, women shuffle in front of the shop and stop by the windowsill, leaning into the glass to inspect the shop from the outside, and it clicks.

“Mrs. Bloom,” You whisper loud enough for only the three of you to hear, “I think this gentleman here is trying to hide from those women over _there_.”

Mrs. Bloom follows the direction of where you point to find a group of women sticking their greasy noses and fingers against the polished glass. She purses her lips, unamused and clenching her jaw.

“Well,” Mrs. Bloom breaths, “seems like Mr. Ackerman needs some saving. Mr. Ackerman!”

Her voice is not above a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear her. She swiftly moves around the counter, stretching her hand out to him, motioning for him to come with her.

But Mr. Ackerman doesn’t move, too conscious of the women just a few steps from him.

“I think it might be in your best interest to take a look in our fabric room,” Mrs. Bloom quietly offers, smiling, “we might have something of your taste.”

Mr. Ackerman looks at her with a skeptical look on his face, not really eager to trust a woman seeing that he had been pecked at just moments ago like crows on a dead body.

“I could’ve sworn I saw him walk in here!” A voice belonging to one of the women on the other side of the glass causes Mr. Ackerman to stiffen.

“Mr. Ackerman,” You speak with caution, and you find yourself holding your breath because once again, even though you’re entirely aware of the meaning of the action, you hold your hand out to him. 

Jean and Mrs. Bloom stand to the side, watching with lips gaped and eyes widened. 

“You can trust us,” You look at him warmly, invitingly. “The fabric room is just upstairs away from your troubles….It also has a great view of the city.”

You hold your smile and hope that he quickly takes your hand; the women outside can’t be blinded by the glare of the sun forever.

“Fine then,” Mr. Ackerman clips, taking your hand in his, “Well, don’t just stand there. Lead the way.”

“Very well then, you heard the man.” Mrs. Bloom chuckles, clasping her hands together as she readies her plan, “you will accompany Mr. Ackerman to the fabric room, and Jean and I will handle the pigeons outside.”

Both you and Jean nod in unison before moving like clockwork, and your mother's ribbons are long forgotten.

* * *

Your eyes scan over the fabric, ghosting the pads of your fingers over the delicate material. It's white with a golden tint that dances beneath the light of the sun filtering in from the window. And if you lean in and look closely, you can see the little flowers embroidered at the hem.

Your eyes widen in awe, you’ve never seen anything so pretty so enthralling and out of your reach. It almost feels as if you’re being mocked.

With your hand falling back to your side, you turn to look at Mr. Ackerman, who stands across the room, mirroring your actions. His brows pulled forward, a deep crease marks his forehead as he studies the soft blue cloth hanging from the wall.

You smile to yourself in amusement. You’ve never seen nor have you met anyone only capable of two expressions, and not a single one has to do with smiling.

You don’t mean to, but you stifle a laugh and Mr. Ackerman’s flow of concentration snaps as he turns to you. His eyes widen just a moment before naturally falling into the same stoic expression.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter, shying your gaze away from him and biting your lip to look at a fabric for your eyes to fixate on.

Mr. Ackerman, on the other hand, unbeknownst to you, is stuck in the turmoil of his anxiousness. He’s been meaning to say something to you, to thank you for the other night, but never found the right timing or reason to do so.

If he had any lucky stars, he’d count them for this moment.

Mr. Ackerman clears his throat, running his callous fingers over the fabric before speaking, “I haven’t thanked you for the other night,” His voice is stern and gruff, yet somehow soft. Soft enough to birth a thrum in your heart. “You saved me from--”

“You don’t need to mention it.” You assure, cutting him off. You twirl the fabric between your fingers before letting it slip and fall back against the wall. “I’m sure it must’ve been a nightmare…”

“It was.” He confirms as he sneers at the memory of that night.

Mr. Ackerman was never a fan of parties and entertaining those who attended them. He steered clear from it by hiding away in his office to drown in work, or anything to steal his time. But the one time he catches a breath, even if it was in the name of rest, Hange and Erwin took it upon themselves to drag him to a ball of all things.

“Are you alright, Mr. Ackerman?” You tilt your head studying the grim look on his face, but then again, it just might be his resting face. You aren’t entirely sure.

He hums in response as he clasps his hands behind him and begins to stroll around the room while continuing to admire the fabrics canvasing the walls.

“I heard you’ve been turning down prospects.” Mr. Ackerman states matter-of-factly, and the sudden turn of the tables almost winds you down.

You clear your throat, running your hands down the material of your dress, smoothening the little lumps you’ve made from picking at your dress in anxiousness.

“Yes,” You answer in a defeated sigh, “I’ve turned down many, and it's not something I’m entirely proud of.”

“Isn’t a woman supposed to accept them and not reject them?”

You nod your head lazily, a heavy feeling falling on your shoulders as if all the weight of your mother’s words have suddenly come crashing down at you.

You lean your back against an open space in the wall, an effect of the weight you're carrying on your back even if it’s metaphorical. You find solace between a mint green material and a soft pink that reminds you of your father’s flowers.

You twiddle your fingers, “Yes, but…” You pause, thinking of your answer and unintentionally pulling on the strings of Mr. Ackerman’s curiosity, “I’m in no hurry for marriage; there are still a great many things I wish to be and do.”

“And what would that be if not a wife?”

You turn your head to face him again, squinting your eyes as you look at him in mirth.

“A painter, perhaps,” Though you don’t do any painting. If anything, you’re more of an observer, watching over Pieck’s shoulder as she does her afternoon painting. “I’m also a bookworm, and a bit of a musician…”

You’ve played the piano once or twice, but not as feverishly and consistently as Sasha; and you only know a few verses of two songs before shying away completely.

“I’d like to be a traveller, too, but that means money and I don’t have that kind of luxury.”

“These all sound like mere hobbies to me,” Mr. Ackerman’s tone is dry, carrying little interest to the conversation. But really, if you were to hear his thoughts, it was quite the opposite. “Hobbies won’t save you from debt.”

“But I'll be happy.” You argue, your voice as gentle as the smile you gleam at him even if he doesn’t meet your eyes. He opts to feel the velvety feel of the deep blue fabric rolled up and hanging on the wall. “My mother thinks I’m foolish, and maybe I am. But I’d rather be happy and in debt, than be miserable with a man who has no interest in getting to know me…”

Mr. Ackerman reflects on your sentiments, and finds himself relating to it, much to his surprise.

He pulls away from the fabrics and turns his body to completely face you, as if he’s telling you his attention is solely focused on just you and nothing else. The same flat expression paints his face, and you don’t try to read him, but the air around him is mysterious and you look at him expectantly.

“I guess, you and I are the same.” Mr. Ackerman notes, sounding as if he just had an epiphany.

You nod your head in agreement.

“Seems so,” You agree nonchalantly, “we’re both running away from attention, yet we’re coming up short. It looks like no matter what we do, we’ll always be cornered by the burden of marriage.”

Mr. Ackerman hums thoughtfully, as if he’s thinking. But it's hard to tell with his emotionless face.

You stiffen when Mr. Ackerman slowly, yet surely, begins to trek towards you. His posture is straight as a board, and he holds his head high while maintaining his focus on you. He looks at you as if he’s on a mission, as if there’s something in he needs to get off his mind.

You look at him with apprehension. “Is there something on my face?”

Mr. Ackerman shakes his head stiffly as his eyes squint at you, as if he’s rethinking and calculating his next movements like a soldier in the middle of a war.

He sucks in a sharp breath before finally speaking, “Ms. Blouse,” He breathes, his breath fanning over your cheeks. You didn’t realize how close he really is until now. “I have a proposition to make, and it might just benefit us--especially you.”

“Me?” You parrot, little taken aback. “What tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

“You’re in no rush to be married.” Mr. Ackerman plainly states, and you nod in agreement. “And I'm tired of being pecked at by the women of this town.” You nod slowly, waiting for him to make his point. “Then why don’t we stay by each other’s side?”

Your brows furrow into a deep crease as your lips fall into an ‘o’.

“I don’t think I understand.” You answer honestly.

Mr. Ackerman takes a deep breath before reiterating, “You and I can pretend to form an attachment.”

You’re taking in his proposal, replaying every word to make sure he is, in fact, without a single doubt, asking you what you think he’s asking you.

“You and I?” You ask, not meaning to sound too taken aback that it almost sounds out of disgust. “Sorry, no, I just--”

“You want your freedom and I want my peace.” His cool demeanor is so out of pocket to you, as if he’s just closing another business deal; nothing more and nothing less. “We’re lighting two candles with a single match, it’s a win for both.”

“I’ve been told men are like flies to a pile of poo when they hear a woman is taken,” Albeit, it isn’t the best analogy, but it does encourage a smile across Mr. Ackerman’s lips--no matter how small it might be.

“You should know of my image,” Mr. Ackerman eases, “I’m sure you’ve heard all the nasty things I’ve supposedly done, so no man would dare to come near what’s mine.”

“I’m not an object, Mr. Ackerman.” You state with your whole chest, your gaze unwavering. “And even if I was, it doesn’t matter to me what you have and haven’t done. They’re all baseless rumors, and if I haven’t heard it from you, then I have no reason to be afraid.”

“And what if the accusations are true, what then?”

You’d be a liar if you said you wouldn't be surprised, but at the most, you aren’t bothered by it at all. In all honesty, you expect it to be true, but it won’t lessen his value in your eyes or in anyone’s for that matter.

But why would it ever matter to him what you thought?

You brush it aside and think rationally, and Mr. Ackerman lets you take all the time in the world as you weigh your options. You think of all the things that could go wrong and all the messes the two of you might make, but if you’re careful and you do this right, then maybe there won’t be much harm.

You bite your cheek as you come to your conclusion, your eyes flicking back to him and you realize how close he’s standing to you, and you find yourself letting go of a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding.

“I guess we have ourselves a deal, Mr. Ackerman.” You stick your hand out for him to shake, smiling at him. “I place my trust in you.”


End file.
